


The Pendulum

by Nempirate



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, M/M, More to be named later - Freeform, Multi, WoL is unspecific
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nempirate/pseuds/Nempirate
Summary: Five years after the Warrior of Light struck down Hades and saved the First, peace and cooperation have joined that star and the Source. With the defeat of Emet-Selch, the Ascians have gone silent; those who know best suspect that their baleful unity has been shaken by the death of two of the greatest of their number. Yet as the Warrior of Light, things have never slowed down for you. Rather, with two worlds to defend, you're busier than ever. Seeking an escape from the high politics of the Source, you've come to the First to visit your old friend, G'raha Tia. But cosmic forces are at work, and even as he asks you to assist in the most mundane of labors, you find yourself worried by the specter of something hanging over the Allagan sorcerer.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	The Pendulum

The spring rain does not stop in Lakeland. It soaks the land down to its bones, surprisingly chill for the new season. By the time that the first lavender blossoms are showing themselves on the trees, the shores of the Source have advanced fulms and fulms, almost drowning the fishing villages that have popped up and grown over the past five years, in defiance of the seasonal flood. It is a testament to the stubborn survivalism of the people of Norvrandt. By another argument, of course, it’s a kind of cowardice – they would rather face certain hardship than risk it in the New Lands, despite all that you’ve done to encourage them.  
You’re shaken from your reverie when Balric, the local headman, passes another heavy sandbag into your arms with a grunt. “Keep it running, sinner. Levy won’t build itself.” You murmur your apologies, shifting the burden to the next worker down the line. The toil of shoring up this hamlet is hardly glamorous - but it is good, satisfying work, the kind that allows you to see your impact immediately. Unlike so much of what you occupy your time with these days, it reminds you of how it felt those first confusing weeks in Ul’dah, before you ever knew the feats you would perform, the choices you’d make, or the person you would become.  
Of course, everyone here, Balric included, knows who you are: you’re the Warrior of Darkness, god-slayer, the savior of First and Source alike. It’s something that you’ve always appreciated about Norvrandters – their commitment to treating you like another poor sinner when anyone back home might be stumbling over their words and piling on effusive praise in the wake of your reputation. Not that your labors here have been any less inspiring, but it’s merely a matter of perspective. Perspective that can be hard to keep, leading the life you do.  
The last few sacks are piled up in the makeshift bulwark, and Balric claps you on the shoulder with the kind of coarse affection you can only expect from a seaman and survivor. “Good of ye to help, killer. Plain decent. Sure that I can’t convince ye to stay for supper? The wee’uns would just love to hear the one about the Talos and the Ladder straight from the source.” A glint in the normally reserved galdjent’s eye tells you that he would, too.  
You return your best apologetic smile. “Sorry, friend. I’m expected, you know.” Over the years, you’ve gotten good at hiding your fatigue – at keeping up a brave face – but perhaps you’re more tired than you thought, or all the sea salt has just made Balric keen on the ways of troubled hearts. He shows you a faint, pensive grin, striking his pipe against the back of his free hand before giving it a few contemplative puffs. He examines the roughhewn trench that you and the lads and lasses cut this morning, breathing out a self-contented cloud of herbal smoke as he turns his gaze to you once more. “Ye know, lots of these kids – they wouldn’t be here, if not for ye. And I don’t just mean here on this leaky star, no. I mean here.” He gives a mound of turf at his foot an affirmative kick. “Places like this? Times were, ye couldn’t even get folks to leave the Crystarium. Hunters and fishers had to keep the place fed beyond the means of the gardens, a’course, but it was lonely livin’. Dangerous. Weren’t a profession any mother’d wish on her bairn. Now, though? Ye can see these young folk want to make this place a home.”  
You watch the shores of the Source impassively. A chill wind lifts off the softly shifting waters, ruffling your hair and making a racket through the boughs of the trees nearby.  
“Yer young yerself. But maybe not so young, eh? Not so young it’s not time to start thinking about home. Findin’ yerself a little patch of land and makin’ it good.” He sniffs, spitting into the ditch. “Aye.”  
You laugh, despite yourself; Balric gives you a knowing, off-kilter grin. “Aye. I expect ye’ve heard this like before, from old blokes as worn down as me. Ain’t all rot, though. T’were the same sentiments which me own Geberta related to me, a’fore she passed.” You let a silent moment pass, either out of politeness or thoughtfulness.  
“I’m sorry. It’s just… hard to imagine. That I’ll be able to stop doing what I do, one day.” Your voice sounds rawer than you thought it would – are you so upset, or is it merely the cold?  
“I thought so too, when I were yet beardless. Was Geberta that helped me to see a different path.” The paternal fisherman mumbles, taking another drag on his pipe. “Might be as ye can’t see the way yerself, but another might.”  
Balric, as is the prerogative of salty sea dogs, is right. It’s not that you haven’t thought about it. Setting down your blade and forgetting a few spells, finding a cozy cabin or a comfortable apartment somewhere. And someone else to share it with? Heat creeps up your ears, unbidden despite the chill. It’s not something you think about. Not something you let yourself think about, if you’re being honest.  
In the end, you stay for rice porridge and a bit of roast venison, well-seasoned with Balric’s good spices. His sons and daughters demand as many as four stories, half of them gathered up in their father’s lap and the others crowding you with inquisitive hands and earnest smiles. By the time that they’re sent to bed, Balric receives the first of his many fellow villagers to stop by that evening, and you’re encouraged to share in a touch of good brandy here or a bit of pound cake made special by the husband there. Ungracefully, you find an exhausted rest in the armchair by the hearth not long after the guest leaves. Blissfully, you’re undisturbed by spirits, apocalyptic visions, or past lives while you slumber. For an evening that seems to last a single moment, you’re content to listen to the sheets of rain on the roof and the soft crackling of the kindling, and to dream of little houses and warm hands and soft lips.  
Your brief taste of domesticity in someone else’s home is utterly spoiled by the guttering wail of a horn the next morning. A horn? Why does a fishing village need a horn?  
Wait. You know that horn. It’s of the same kind used by the Crystarium guard. Fumbling for your kit and your dignity, you rush outside to see the danger.  
The danger, as it turns out, is a few grouchy fishwives whose babes have woken early thanks to the bugling. In the still-bright predawn light, you see them arrayed in a semi-circular formation more fearsome than all the battalions of Garlemald around a familiar Vi who is struggling to suppress her frustration. She spots you as you stroll up the muddy road that cuts through the village.  
“There you are! Wicked white – excuse me madams,” Lyna abruptly presses through the small crowd of fisherwomen to approach you, her attendant outriders turning their amaros to follow the commander. As you’ve come to expect from the white-haired woman, she looks hardly pleased to be here; while she normally offers you at least an acknowledging smile, she seems flustered this morning.  
“Is everything alright, Lyna?” She doesn’t seem wounded, or particularly nervous – which makes her presence here all the odder.  
She groans, crossing her arms and fixing you with a critical eye. “I suppose so.” After a moment more, she seems to forgive you whatever trespass you’ve committed, her expression softening and her posture relaxing. “Yes. It’s just… you were supposed to return yesterday evening.”  
You cock your head to one side, incredulous. Lyna rubs at the back of her neck, a flush coloring her dusky cheeks. “Well…” She sighs, leaning in to whisper to you conspiratorially. “It’s the Exarch. At twilight, he was fine; two hours after supper, he was pacing the Ocular. By midnight, he was sure that bandits had caught you, demanding that I form a search party.” She must see the doubt and surprise in your eyes, because she stifles a somewhat sadistic chuckle. “I managed to convince him to wait until morning, but he wasn’t happy about it. We should hurry back, if you’ve concluded here.” She looks back to the amaros wearily.  
Still in a bit of shock at the news of Raha’s fit, you wander back to Balric’s hut to make apologies. He’s already gone fishing for the morning, but his eldest daughter assures you that you’ve been no trouble and arms you with a few loaves of honey bread for the road. The flight back to the Crystarium is uneventful, giving you ample time to marshal your thoughts as you watch dawn paint the dewy landscape of Lakeland in scintillating tones of rose and violet. More than most, your Allagan friend should know that you can take care of yourself – even if the roads through Lakeland weren’t safe thanks to Lyna’s hard work, a few bandits wouldn’t do you any worse than an Ascian or a child of Midgardsormr. More than that, it was Raha who asked you to help out Balric’s village in the first place. Why would he send you out unaccompanied if he thought you’d be in real danger?  
These questions are still cycling through your head as you arrive at the rookery, and as Lyna stops you at the tower steps. “Are you feeling alright?” She places an attentive hand on your shoulder, her gaze piercing.  
“Ah—yes. Sorry. Long day yesterday. Longer night.” Unlike certain other Scions, lying is not your strong suit; while it’s true that you’re still exhausted, you’re also a bit frustrated – so what if you didn’t show up on time? Is it so wrong to take a break now and again? Though you don’t voice these concerns, Lyna sighs, and nods knowingly. “Just… talk to him, alright? You know he’s a worrier.”  
“Right. Thanks, Lyna.” Getting angry isn’t going to help.  
She gives you an understanding smile, a rare gesture from the normally taciturn Vi. She walks with you in silence through the gleaming interior of the tower until you reach the landing that adjoins the Ocular. At the door she performs the customary perfunctory salute of the Crystarium and leaves you to it.  
You don’t know why a sudden nervousness creeps over you as you reach for the door; you don’t know why you have to take a breath to steady yourself, first. The brilliant environs of the Ocular are familiar to you now; so is the nervous seeker who watches the portal at the far side of the room expectantly, his tail lashing and his hands clenched together in a picture of helpless worry. At the sound of the door opening, he turns to you, ears lifting reflexively; at the moment he sees you, his expression shifts from relief, to bitterness, to regret all in a matter of seconds.  
“There you are…” he clears his throat, straightening himself out as best as he can. By his bedraggled state, you think his sleep of yester night was not as restful as yours. “Hello.”  
The best you can muster is a skeptical “Hello?” in return. You fix him with a hard stare and see him shrink somewhat, though he quickly composes himself.  
“I’m glad you're alright.”  
“So I gather.” You approach, setting your hands on your hips. “Mind telling me what the armed escort was about?”  
“Oh, that.” He laughs nervously. “I just, erm- I knew Lyna was heading out on patrol either way, so I thought she should offer to bring you back to the city in comfort.  
“You have an aetheryte, Raha. I could have just teleported back.”  
“Of course you could have! I know that.” He worries at some of the focuses hanging from his wrist, his off-colored eyes skirting the floor around your feet rather than meeting your gaze. “I just thought – since you didn’t…”  
“That I was kidnapped?” You thought you had earned more confidence than that.  
“No! I thought…” He turns one shoulder to you, watching the portal again. “I thought you might’ve already gone.”  
“Gone…? You mean back to the Source?”  
“Yes, back to the Source.” His reply is terse; Raha is never terse with you. “You don’t need the portal like the others do. You can move through the space between our worlds at a whim. Your connection to this place has always been strong, but so is your connection to the Source.” He sighs, turning his gaze back to you. “I know you think I must sound childish. I know I can’t monopolize your time. But there was a reason I asked you to dine last night.”  
You shift your weight, confusion taking the place of anger. It’s true that Raha isn’t the type to indulge in much conviviality, but you’ve been running yourself ragged lately, and resting at Balric’s place promised a bit of respite from the pressures of the Crystarium. “What reason?”  
Raha is silent for a moment. Just as you are about to ask again, he conjures his staff to his hand, turning to face you once more. “Perhaps it would be good form to show you.” He strikes the butt of the staff against the crystalline flower, and a familiar projection of the fourteen shards swirls into being around you from the motes of aetheric light hovering in the room. Raha begins with a sigh, adopting some of that teacherly mystery he wore like a cloak when you first met him here. As he speaks, the shards swirl in a ballet about each other, small trails of aetheric dust linking them as they draw close and shattering as they spin away. “As I explained to you when you first arrived on this star, the shards share a temporal correspondence but rarely overlap directly. When you arrived, you had the good fortune to do so at a moment of relative synchronicity, such that the time spent here would minimize the resultant span of days and weeks on the Source.”  
“I remember, Raha.” You pass your hand pensively over the outline of one of the shattered stars – Igeyorhm’s doing. To think, a mere half decade past, the First almost shared a similarly ignominious end. Your eyes return to the Exarch, whose copper-furred ears have drooped back to the sides of his head. Studying him, you realize something: in all the five some years you’ve known him, and despite all the centuries he weathered to stand before you now, you’ve never seen him look quite so old. Not physically, of course – the link he shares with the tower sees to that – but there is still a haggardness to his stance, a weakness to his grasp upon his staff. And, distantly, you think, a note of something like heartbreak in his crimson eye.  
“This grace period is ending.” He delivers his pronouncement without further ado, and even as your mind races to comprehend the meaning behind this revelation, he raises a hand. “But it will not be as it was before. When you travelled here, the temporal distance between your home and this star was in favor of the Source. In a matter of weeks on that world, years passed for the Scions who I had pulled here. Now, the pendulum swings naturally towards the other extreme.” He strikes the butt of his staff against the pristine floor of the tower once more, and the illusory cosmos disparates as swiftly as it appeared. “Moments here will become days on the Source. You might leave this room, return a week later in your own time, and it will be as if you had just left.” He pauses a moment, clutching his staff in both hands. “Your duties as guardian of that star, of course, will not be interrupted, so long as you remain there. You would not suffer greatly for the loss of my clumsy advice.”  
You open your mouth to protest, but he waves you off. “But any moment you spent here would be crucial. If you stayed to help prepare for the floods, you might miss months or even years upon the Source. If you stayed for dinner, you could miss a battle, or the summoning of some nefarious new Ascian machination.” He casts his eyes to the floor, unable to hold your gaze any longer. “You couldn’t come here anymore.”  
“Raha – “ You stop yourself. What could you say that might comfort a man who has travelled across space and time, who has already seen untold generations live and die thanks to his longevity? “I’m sorry that I didn’t come back last night.”  
“It doesn’t matter.” Three words are so bitter, but he speaks them without malice. Instead, there is something apologetic in his tone. “That isn’t all I wanted to say to you.” His gaze dares to hover closer to your face.  
“Yes?” You look at him, your friend, the man who crossed centuries and worlds to save you.  
“It is in light of this most expected and most unwelcome of changes that I… have to speak my mind.” A sorrowful smile spreads across his face. “A part of me – most of me, if I am honest, rails against me for even contemplating this. It is an ultimate selfishness, a vice which I have tried so hard to rid myself of ever since the day that I understood my destiny.” You watch him, questioning. Like so many other times, the words you want to say won’t come.  
“But that selfishness is still as indefatigable as the day I first left you and the rest of NOAH.” His smile is a little more genuine at this; the events of a few years ago must seem so far off, so childish to him. “I won’t mince words. Even with the link that we have established, the bridge between our worlds is about to become impassable. To come here, you would risk too much on your home star. And it could be the case that…” He stops to find the words, or catch his breath; belatedly, you notice the tears that have formed in his eyes. “That you leave one day, and I would not see you again.”  
“I can’t bear that again. Forgive me this self-interest, my friend. When the First and the Source split, I want… I want you to stay with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Making this up as I go, more pairings/tags will be added as things take shape


End file.
